


Mrs. Teanettle & Friends

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Act II, Beatrix Potter AU, Between Act II and Act III, Children's Literature, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: A new children's book knocks Hard in Hightown off the best-seller list: "Mrs. Teanettle & Friends," an illustrated storybook about an apron-wearing hedgehog and her village full of animal friends, written by the mysterious "Henrietta Plum."Varric is annoyed at first, and then furious when he finds out "Henrietta Plum" is a penname for Garrett Hawke.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 24
Kudos: 83





	Mrs. Teanettle & Friends

"Can you believe this?" Varric stopped in front of the bookseller's shop. For months, Hard in Hightown had held place of honor in the front window next to a sign proclaiming it the best-selling novel in the Free Marches. It had been replaced unceremoniously with a glossy children's book with wide pages and large, filigreed font and crosshatched illustrations. Mrs. Teanettle & Friends had a dumpy hedgehog in a checkered apron and bonnet on the cover, and was so cozy, so darling, that it made Varric's teeth ache just to look at it. "How does _that_ become an overnight sensation?" 

Hawke plugged his nose with one finger and blew a green booger in the gutter. "Dunno." 

"I mean, it makes sense for people with kids to buy it, but even adults are getting into this hedgehog crap. You know what my publisher called it? A phenomenon. What does that make me, nug dung?"

The takeover had been so abrupt. Over a year of uncontested literary supremacy, and in one week a frilly children's book about sharing and caring outsold more than six months of Hard in Hightown. It was bad enough that every bookseller in Kirkwall was displaying Mrs. Teanettle, but every window also had dolls, doileys, plates, and dozens of other memorabilia. A stuffed hedgehog in the window smiled up at him with button eyes. What he wouldn't give to put a crossbow bolt through it.

"Now my publisher is getting on my case, saying my next book has to outperform Mrs. Teanettle, or she'll rescind my advance. How am I supposed to compete with something with merchandizing? It's not like I can make Donnen Brennokovic dolls."

Hawke yawned. The bells were ringing six o'clock. Supper time was ending, and the lamplighters were raising their tapers to the Hightown lanterns. "It's a rough spot," said Hawke.

"No kidding. And now there's a new book coming out: Mrs. Teanettle Plans a Party, and everyone thinks it'll make more than the first. Pain in my ass. Henrietta Plum," said Varric.

"What about her?" asked Hawke.

"Part of why the book is hot is because no one knows who the author is. Henrietta is a ghost, a 'private individual.' I hired three men to find out her real name, and not one of them came back with anything."

"Did you really?" asked Hawke.

"I want to know my competition," said Varric. "It's probably some Orlesian dowager who doesn't want her reputation as a lioness spoiled. We'll see how long that lasts."

Hawke cleared his throat. "I should get home. Thanks for helping me today, Varric."

"Sure. Anytime you need me to wrangle your tax-collector, just whistle." 

Hawke bid him farewell and set off for home. Varric watched him turn his collar up against the autumn breeze, the leaves scratching across the marble streets of High Town. Varric gave one last baleful glance at Mrs. Teanettle in the window, then started down the stairs back to his warm hearth in Lowtown.

* * *

_Mrs. Teanettle woke with sunshine on her face. She yawned and rubbed her eyes with her paws._

_It was the first day of spring. The perfect day for a party._

_She rose and washed her face with lavender water. Then she combed out her needles and tied her apron around her waist. Her bonnet smelled of flowers, and she tucked her ears under its brim._

_She had sent the invitations out weeks ago. All her friends were coming. They would arrive at noon, and she could not be more thrilled._

_"But first," said Mrs. Teanettle, "I need to clean!"_

* * *

The next time Varric visited Hawke, he brought cider to celebrate the end of tax season. Hawke's tax-collector was Varric's cousin twice-removed, but it didn't stop him being an ass. 

They drank cider in front of the fire in his room. The autumn wind rattled the windows, sending leaves scurrying around the garden. The mabari snored gently on the bed. They talked about Aveline's honeymoon in Orlais, and the ferret Isabela won in a bet at the Hanged Man only to roll over on it in her sleep the next day. The afternoon dragged on sleepily, and Hawke stood up and stretched his back. 

"I have to use the privy," said Hawke. "Do you need anything from the kitchens?"

"I'm good," said Varric. 

He waited until the sound of Hawke's footsteps faded before he started snooping. 

Varric never claimed to be an honest dwarf. He was always digging for details that might turn up a good story, or at least let him help his dimwitted friends. He cradled his earthen mug and poked around the papers on Hawke's desk. 

It was mostly what he expected to find. Bills of lading for the Bone Pit. A commission for a new set of greaves for his armor. Varric was just about to start opening drawers when a book spine caught his eye.

Mrs. Teanettle & Friends. 

"Holy shit." Varric slid it from under the stack it was buried under. Was Hawke a fan?

He flipped through the pages. It was as dull as he expected it to be. Twee paragraph after twee paragraph about jams and jellies and what it means to be a good neighbor. On the back page was a note. 

It was written in a quick, slanted hand. "Congratulations, kid." 

Varric recognized that handwriting. His was from his publisher, Adele Oseth. 

Why would Hawke have this?

He set the book down and dug through the papers that had been on top of it. They were sketches, drawn lightly with charcoal. Varric had always had a notion that Hawke was a skilled draftsman, given that the was always doodling in his leather journal whenever they were in camp. These sketches were mostly of nature: delicate leaves and insects all shaded with a loving hand.

And then, suddenly, a familiar face. 

“No way.” Varric set his cup down on the table. He pulled more papers out from the bottom of the stack. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Kidding you about what—?” Hawke froze in the doorway. 

“You’re the author of Mrs. Teanettle?” said Varric.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“How do you explain this, then?” Varric held up a drawing of a hedgehog wearing a bonnet and apron. She was pulling a tray of scones out of a tiny, moss covered oven.

“I copied it," said Hawke. "It was just practice." 

“Bullshit. You’re her. You’re Henrietta Plum.”

Hawke was six feet of scarred muscle, a stone cold killer with a tattooed face. He stabbed men in the back and cut their guts to ribbons. He owned more knives than most people owned socks. He was a smuggler, a cheat, and a real bastard. 

He was also the author of the most adored children’s book in Thedas, Mrs. Teanettle & Friends.

The only book to ever outsell Hard in Hightown.

“I can’t believe it,” said Varric. “You’re my rival.”

“I’m not your…” Hawke ran a hand down his face. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“All this time, my publisher had me believe you were from another press.” Varric tossed the drawings on the table. “When the hell did she contract you?”

“Last year. I did some sketches for a mage in the Circle,” said Hawke. “He was putting together a compendium of native flora and fauna of the Free Marches. He passed them along to your publisher, and she asked me to do a few more books of plants and animals. And then one day I just pitched it to her. She didn't think it would turn out to be a bestseller.”

“I'm going to kill her.” Varric’s publisher was a pipe-chomping dwarf with more warts than teeth who hated books almost as much as she hated authors. She had given him guff for his sales falling below Mrs. Teanettle, never once mentioning that she was raking in money for Mrs. Teanettle, too. “But first I’m going to kill you. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not the kind of thing I want getting out.”

“What, that you write books about baby animals going on cute adventures?”

“It’s personal,” said Hawke.

“Personal. A hedgehog in an apron is personal?”

“Yes, in the same way your books are personal.”

“My books are trash that pay the bills.”

“Well, this isn’t trash to me.”

"Seriously?" asked Varric. 

Hawke didn't answer. He was a man of few words, and the more deeply he felt about something, the more mum he got. Varric never once heard him tell his family he loved them, even though he had doted on them like a hen. Whatever this book series meant to him, it would never leave his lips. 

"Fine," said Varric. "Keep it to yourself." 

“You’re not going to tell anyone, right? Because if you do—”

“Relax, your secret is safe with me. But I am going to have a long talk with my— _our_ publisher.” Varric picked up his glass and drained the last of the cider. “I just can’t believe you’re Henrietta Plum.”

“Do me a favor: stop calling me that,” said Hawke.

* * *

_Mrs. Teanettle said she would pick the flowers herself._

_She went out into her little garden, behind her little house, where her little flowerpots sat in the warm sun on the red tile of her patio. She snipped the stems of three daisies with her golden scissors and wrapped them together with a yellow ribbon._

_“These will make my friends smile,” she said._

_She put them in a vase of water on her kitchen table. Then she took up her broom and swept._

_“A hedgehog’s home is her heart,” said Mrs. Teanettle. “And never has a hedgehog let friends into an unswept house.”_

_She washed all the round little windows and dusted the round little paintings on the wall. She polished the portrait of her brother, sister, mother, and father. She swept the ashes from the hearth. Then she laid out her ingredients on her table._

_“A mint cake iced with meadowcream,” she decided._

_She was just banking the coals under her little oven, when there came a knock at the door._

_“My first guest!” she exclaimed. “They’ve come early.”_

_She opened the round door and found Golden Mole on her doorstep._

_“Mr. Mole!” exclaimed Mrs. Teanettle. “You know the party isn’t until noon.”_

_“I was so excited, I couldn’t wait.” Golden Mole was shorter than Mrs. Teanettle. He had a chest covered in thick golden curls, and wore a golden chain around his neck. He held up a little brown jug. “I brought cider.”_

_“We can heat it on the stove,” said Mrs. Teanettle. “But first, you must help me sweep the floor.”_

_Golden Mole grumbled, but help he did. Because Golden Mole was a friend indeed._

* * *

“You’re the author of Mrs. Teanettle?” said Isabela.

Hawke choked on his ale. A few patrons looked over at their table. "Who told you that?”

“Varric did,” said Isabela.

Fucking hell. "Who else did he tell?”

“Just a few friends.”

“What?!”

“Relax.” She scratched her nails on his arm. “It’s a delicious secret. Big, bad Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, man about High Town, terror of the underworld, and what does he do in his spare time? Not even something remotely interesting involving shackles.”

Hawke glared at her. “Did you blab to anyone?”

“No. Although, there are a lot of people out there who’d pay good coin to find out who Henrietta Plum really is.”

The room spun slightly. “Please don’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?" Isabela caught the eye of a blonde woman at the bar. "What have you done for me, lately?”

“I saved you from the Qunari!”

"That was three years ago, you can’t keep using that.”

“I’ll keep using it for as long as I have bowel spasms from where the Arishok skewered me through the gut.”

“Right. Your privy problems.” Isabela downed the rest of her ale.

“I would lose all respect if it got out. You know the Champion's reputation would never recover.”

“Can’t have that.” Isabela rolled her eyes. “Fine, keep your secret, for however long it lasts. No one will hear a word from me.”

Hawke let out a breath. “Thank you.”

“On one condition,” said Isabela.

Hawke curled his fingers on the table. “Name it.”

“You stop bringing up the Arishok.”

“Fine.”

“Good. Have a nice day, Henrietta,” said Isabela, and followed the blonde woman to a back room with only a slight wobble in her step.

* * *

_The second knock came at Mrs. Teanettle’s backdoor._

_“Who could that be?” said she, already knowing who. She peered out a little round window at her trampled petunias._

_“Goat,” said Mrs. Teanettle, and opened the door._

_Goat stood on the doorstep with a bottle of mosswine. She had beautiful long ears and a blue banana and wore golden bangles on her wrists. She swayed slightly, because no one in Primrose Valley loved mosswine as much as Goat._

_“I came early to get the best seat,” said Goat._

_“My kitchen table is round- all seats are the best seats,” said Mrs. Teanettle. “But it’s a bit early for mosswine. Let’s pour some mint tea instead.”_

_“I’ll get the mugs!” said Goat, and clip-clopped into the house._

* * *

“I can’t believe you wrote a children’s book,” said Anders.

“Would you keep it down,” snapped Hawke. They carried the unconscious elf between them and lay him on a cot at the back of the clinic. Hawke stepped back and washed his hands in a basin. Anders got to work pouring magic into the deep gash on the man’s thigh.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me." The magic faded from Ander's hands, and he bent to sniff the wound. “But I am proud of you.”

“Proud of me? For what?”

“For putting a mage in the book. The cat character.”

“Oh.” Hawke stared down at the pink water of the basin. “Is it that big a deal?”

Anders looked up at him. “You wrote about a mage being a friend in a _children’s_ book. Do you know how unheard of that is? Children will take that to heart. Their parents might even pay attention.”

“I suppose,” murmured Hawke. “Wait, how do you know? Did you read it?”

“Isabela gave me a copy,” said Anders. “The drawings are very charming.”

Hawke snorted and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Are we done?”

“Yes, that should be all the help I need for the day.”

Hawke whistled. His mabari came panting over from his place near the firepit.

“Although, you could do so much more with it,” said Anders.

Hawke paused in pinning his cloak. “What?”

“You could use Mrs. Teanettle to call out the Chantry,” said Anders, his voice rising. “Make the next book about her siding with the mage animals over the Templar animals.”

"I don't think my publisher would like that."

"You could persuade her. The mage animals could lead a revolution, take back Primrose Valley from the Chantry-"

"As much as I appreciate your input," said Hawke, flatly, "that's not what Mrs. Teanettle is about."

“Fine,” said Anders, turning his back on him. “Enjoy your jams and jellies.”

* * *

_There came a soft scratching at the cellar door._

_Mrs. Teanettle set the tray of jams and jellies on the table and went down the stairs to her storeroom. There was a door at the back with a little latch on it. She unlocked it and threw the door open._

_“Cat!” she said._

_Cat wore a shabby green coat over his dusty orange fur. He carried a mage staff, and was always sneaking around in the tunnels under Primrose Valley because he was shy._

_“I took care of the spiders under your house,” said Cat. “I used my fireball.”_

_“That was kind of you,” said Mrs. Teanettle. “Though, Cat, you know you can use the front door.”_

_“I am a very private cat,” said Cat. “And you never know when there might be dogs about.”_

_Mrs. Teanettle dusted the spiderwebs off his shoulders. “Come in and warm yourself by the fire. I worry about you so much, my dear.”_

* * *

“You’re oddly defensive about this Mrs. Teanettle thing,” said Sebastian. “Is everything all right?”

Hawke spun the lure in a wide arc above his head. The falcon remained stubbornly in its tree. Sebastian sat on his horse nearby, his own falcon hooded and quiet on his glove.

“You’ve gained recognition for your creativity. It’s a good thing, my friend,” said Sebastian.

Hawke spun the lure faster. Sweat beaded on his brow. The falcon tilted her head, the bell on her jesses tinkling.

“Are you ashamed?” asked Sebastian.

Hawke let the lure fall to the earth. “Did anyone ever tell you falconry is for rich cunts?"

"The last I checked, you are a wealthy man, Hawke. Sooner or later, your peers will expect this of the Champion. I would never have suggested it did I not think it would benefit you."

"Benefit me." 

"Yes. It's meant to be _fun_. In any case, about Mrs. Teanettle-" 

"Leave it. It's private." 

Sebastian sighed. He ran a finger down the back of his falcon’s tail. “As you wish. I must admit, I was surprised at first, but it does suit you.”

“Does it now?” Hawke took a running leap at the tree and began to climb its lower branches.

“Yes,” said Sebastian. “You’re very….well, you’re not like any mercenary I’ve ever met.”

Hawke reached out and grabbed the falcon in his bare fist. She squawked and began pecking his fingers bloody, until they crashed to the ground in a heap.

“None at all,” said Sebastian.

* * *

_The little clock on Mrs. Teanettle’s mantle chimed noon._

_No sooner had the first chime finished, did there come a knock at the front door._

_Mrs. Teanettle opened it and gasped. “The Prince of the Forest!”_

_She curtsied. The Prince of the Forest was resplendent in his white armor. His antlers were impressive, too._

_“I have come today to attend the party of my friend, Mrs. Teanettle.” The Prince held out a parcel wrapped in silk. “She will find within the choicest figs from beyond the Blue Mountains.”_

_“Thank you. I’m sure we’ll enjoy them.”_

_The Prince left his silver bow by the door and strode proudly into the den. Golden Mole pulled out a chair out for him. As he sat, Goat kicked the chair away. The Prince sat down hard on the floor, and Golden Mole and Goat roared with laughter. The Prince laughed, too._

_Mrs. Teanettle nodded in approval. A true prince knew not to take life too seriously._

* * *

“I think it’s very sweet,” said Merrill.

She stood tippy-toes on a ladder and lowered a lantern from the lowest bough of the Venandahl tree and handed it to Hawke. He packed it gently into a boxed lined with rags.

“My favorite drawing was the one where the house catches on fire and Cat puts the flames with an arctic blast,” said Merrill. “Though you know, an ice spell at that range would cause a lot more damage.”

“I’ll take it under consideration,” murmured Hawke.

“It’s all right, Hawke. I’m sure whoever did your drawings just didn’t do their homework. Unless you did the drawings, oh, I’ve stepped in it again.”

“Thanks, Merrill,” said Hawke.

“Oh! Could there be a gryphon in the next one?” Merrill dropped the next lantern, and it shattered on the ground. “A cute baby fluffy one?”

“I’ll file it..." Hawke grunted as he bent to pick up the shards. "...under consideration." 

* * *

_There was a thump on the roof of Mrs. Teanettle’s house._

_“Oh my,” said the Prince of the Forest._

_Something big and furry came tumbling down the chimney. Krrrrwhoosh! Ash spluttered everywhere! Mrs. Teanettle coughed. Poor Cat was covered. Goat and Golden Mole shielded the food with their arms._

_Sitting in the fireplace was Gryphon. She was only a little gryphon, but she was big enough to fill the entire hearth._

_“I’m so sorry.” She sneezed, and all her blue feathers puffed up. “I didn’t think it would go that badly.”_

_“It's all right, Gryphon,” said Mrs. Teanettle, and wiped her friend’s feathers with a handerchief. “Messes are more fun when they build up an appetite.”_

_“Oh good, because I brought these!” Gryphon pulled out a caddy filled with sweetmeats._

_“Thank you, Gryphon. Now, everyone, grab a mop!” said Mrs. Teanettle._

_“I’ll watch,” said Goat, and kicked her hooves up._

_“Good old Goat,” giggled Gryphon, and sneezed soot all over herself._

* * *

“Did your mother know you had this hobby?” asked Aveline.

“I came here to tell you that highwayman off the costal road won’t be bothering anyone ever again,” said Hawke.

“Yes, and your bounty will be here tomorrow,” said Aveline, frowning. “Right now, I want to know why my best friend didn’t tell me he’s the author of the most famous book in Thedas?”

Hawke pulled up a chair. “You sound like Varric.”

“For once, I agree with him. Did Leandra know?”

“No,” said Hawke. “I only took it up after she died.”

“That’s a shame,” said Aveline, studying the open book on her desk. “I think she would have been pleased to see her son find gainful employment that wasn't killing bandits.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted her to know,” said Hawke.

“Why?”

“It would have been like her seeing me naked. It’s complicated.”

“Needless complicated, like everything with you.” She shut the book. “Well, if that publisher of yours ever tries to swindle you, let me know.”

* * *

_The window sprang open, and a shaggy someone landed in the living room. “I heard there was an unauthorized party on the premises!”_

_“Oh Boar,” sighed Mrs. Teanettle. “You can be such a boor.”_

_Boar snorted and put her hooves on her hips. “Why wasn’t I invited?”_

_“You were,” said Mrs. Teanettle. She carried a tray to Boar and offered her a jelly tart. “It must have gotten lost in the mail.”_

_“Most likely a thief.” Boar munched her tart thoughtfully. She was the law in Primrose Valley, and thieves were often on her mind. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”_

_“Until then, would you like to stay? There’s only one guest who hasn’t arrived yet, and I’m not sure he’s coming,” said Mrs. Teanettle, a little sadly. “I guess we’ll have to start the party without him.”_

* * *

There was a soft knock at Hawke’s door.

Hawke used a paintbrush as thin as an eyelash to paint the checkered pattern on Mrs. Teanettle’s apron. “Enter.”

The door opened, and Fenris poked his head in.

Hawke’s hand jerked across the page, spattering ink. He started to stand, sat down, moved to cover the pages he was working on, remembered they were wet, then simply stood with his hands held in front of him. “I thought were you Bodahn.”

“He was busy in the kitchen. May I enter?” asked Fenris.

“Of course.” Hawke came around the desk and leaned against it. “What can I do for you?”

Fenris left the bedroom door open. “It has been a fortnight since I saw you last. I was….concerned.”

“Oh, well, I’ve been busy.”

It was not a lie. Hawke’s deadline to deliver on the next book was creeping up on him. His publisher was getting antsy, and the printer needed color plates. He had procrastinated, and now was working around the clock to finish the painstaking illustrations to the neglect of everything else in his life.

“I assumed you were busy, too?” asked Hawke.

“A job last week,” said Fenris. “Nothing of late.”

“Ah.”

Hawke became absorbed in a stray thread on the hem of his sleeve. Fenris looked everywhere except the bed.

“What busies you?” asked Fenris. “Your….book?”

Hawke was going to kill Varric. “That reached you?”

“Pieces. Isabela and Merrill gave intoxicated accounts, remembering too late they were meant to keep your secret.”

“Terrific.” Hawke washed his face with his hands. “The whole town will howling about it soon.”

“If I may ask, what is it exactly you wrote?” asked Fenris.

Hawke had never been able to lie to Fenris. No matter how painful things were between them, no matter how much Hawke resented him for leaving, he could never bring himself to be untruthful.

“I wrote a children’s book about a hedgehog named Mrs. Teanettle,” said Hawke.

Fenris’s face did a series of interesting twitches. “That….is unexpected.”

“Feel free to laugh.” Hawke went back around the table and sat down. “I’m working on the next book now. It’s promised to my publisher next week.”

“May I?” asked Fenris.

Hawke handed him a page. It was one he had recently finished, showing Mrs. Teanettle ladle meadowcream onto a cake. Fenris took another page and examined it. The longer he stood there in silence, the more Hawke’s heart hammered.

“You are an excellent draftsmen,” said Fenris. “You have clearly studied from nature.”

“Oh, thank you.” Hawke couldn’t help but beam at that.

Fenris put the pages back on the desk. “You hid this to protect your reputation?”

“That was certainly part of it,” said Hawke.

“And the other parts?”

Fenris’s face betrayed no mockery. Whatever his private feelings that his ex-lover moonlighted as an illustrator of talking animal books, he was trying to be considerate. Everyone else had poked and teased him about it. Fenris, as far as he could tell, wanted no more than he was willing to give.

“When I was a little boy,” said Hawke, “my father would let me draw in the margins of his grimoire. He was a severe man. We never seemed able to talk to each other. But my drawings….we could talk about those without a problem. Showing him my pictures was the only way I could tell him that I loved him. I think it was the only way he could tell me he loved me, too.

“It made me want to be an artist. I believed it was possible for a long time. Then father died, and we fell behind on our debts, and I picked up a knife and killed a man because I wanted his coin. Life happened. I became someone I didn’t like.”

Hawke pushed his paintbrushes into a line.

“I took care of my family for years. Then one day I woke up a rich man in a big empty house with no one but myself to look after. One thing led to another, and an opportunity presented itself to be what I always wanted to be. I draw the things that made me happy, once upon a time.”

“You've made others happy as well,” said Fenris.

Hawke let out a surprised laugh. “Well, It’s easier to show people you care when it’s not to their face.”

Hawke kept his eyes fixed on the illustration of the hedgehog. Fenris reached past him to another drawing of all the animals around a table, feasting at their party at the end of a long day.

“You made Isabela a goat?” he asked.

“Of course not,” said Hawke. “All likenesses to people living or dead are purely coincidence.”

“Hm. I suggest you not tell Aveline you made her a pig,” said Fenris.

Hawke turned a key over his lips and tossed it away.

Fenris studied the last figure in the painting for a long moment, the one standing in the doorway, and set the page back down.

“I cannot claim to understand your….interests,” said Fenris. “But it clearly means a great deal to you. Your heart is on the page.”

“Don’t oversell it,” said Hawke, but something tight snagged in his throat. “Thank you, by the way. For not laughing.”

“I was tempted, but I prefer to remain in your good graces.”

 _You always are_ , thought Hawke.

“I need to get this finished,” he said.

“Understood.” Fenris went to the door. “Will I see you at the Hanged Man tomorrow?”

“If I stay up all night finishing these pages, sure. If not, you’ll know I drowned in ink.”

Fenris smiled and left. Hawke listened to his soft footsteps disappear down the stairs and out of the estate, then picked up his brush and returned to his task.

* * *

_Mrs. Teanettle and her friends had sat down at the table when a knock came at the door._

_“Late!” said Cat, indignantly. “How rude.”_

_“Just when we were cutting into the cake,” said Gryphon._

_Mrs. Teanettle removed her napkin from her lap and went to the door. When she opened it, she found the Little Wolf on the step._

_“I apologize for my tardiness,” said the Wolf in his gruff voice. He was white with fierce green eyes, but when he looked at the floor he seemed very small. “May I still attend your party?”_

_“Of course you may,” said Mrs. Teanettle. There was always a place for the Wolf at her table, because Mrs. Teanettle loved the Wolf most of all. “You can sit next to me.”_

_Mrs. Teanettle and her friends sat down and joined hands in the blessing. The scones and pies and hams all steamed deliciously._

_“We are blessed to have such tasty food in a warm home,” said Mrs. Teanettle. “And I am blessed to have such wonderful friends. A party without friends is no party at all, and today my friends have made this the best party ever. Tuck in!”_

_They ate and drank merrily. Goat guzzled too much mosswine and ended up on the floor. Gryphon teased Boar, and Golden Mole teased the Prince of the Forest. Mrs. Teanettle beamed at her friends, and took the Little Wolf’s paw under the table._

_“Thank you for leaving your door open for me,” said the Wolf._

_“You're welcome,” said Mrs. Teanettle. "And it always will be."_


End file.
